32. Elena
32
ELENA
I wake up on Halloween, certain that today will be my last day with Lorne. The rain has finally stopped, and sunshine is pouring in the windows…the first truly sunny day I’ve seen in Grimstone.
I shower and dress quickly, excited to see Ivy. When I knock on her door, Mrs. Cross pulls it open, and I hustle right past her, not waiting for any more bullshit.
Ivy is sitting up by the window, but she looks terrible. Dark circles line her eyes, her hair limp and greasy. She’s slumping in her chair, head leaning listlessly against the glass.
When she sees me, she lifts her head, surprised and almost stricken. She obviously didn’t think I was coming—she’s still in her pajamas.
“Hey, sleepyhead!” I say, trying for cheerfulness, though my heart squeezes when I see how thin and pale she looks. Guilt comes rushing back at the thought of leaving her like this. “How are you feeling? You don’t look swollen anymore.”
Ivy gives one small nod, but she’s not smiling.
“Come on,” I say, holding out my hand. Only then does she slowly slide off the chair and take my hand.
I wait in her bedroom while she showers and dresses. Her bedroom is spotlessly neat, the bed made, but I’m irritated to see that the books I bought her are missing. Assuming Mrs. Cross took them away, I plot to get them back again. But then I realize Mrs. Cross can just take them away again tomorrow—and I won’t be able to do anything about it.
Ivy comes out wearing one of the outfits we bought together, a black tunic with a gold cat knitted on the front and black-and-gold-striped leggings. It makes her look like a tiny witch, especially with her dandelion-floss hair all tangled and weedy-wet. I brush her hair, careful not to yank the snarls, and help her fasten the clasp on her birthstone necklace.
Ivy examines herself in the mirror. I stand beside her, smiling. I’m all in black, too—dark jeans and the leather bomber Atlas bought me. As usual, Ivy has dressed to match me. She looks up at me and steps closer. Automatically, I put my arm around her. Ivy gazes at us both in the mirror. And finally smiles.
I feel so horribly, awfully guilty, I can’t stand it. I have to turn away, blinking tears.
“Come on, sweetie. Let’s get going.”
I take her down to Main Street once more, just the two of us. We walk through the drifts of crunching leaves, dead and brown now and blown around by the wind. The streets are freshly washed, and the air smells clean and salty. But already, thick rafts of clouds are blowing in again. The sunshine was rare and temporary.
The streets are packed with excited tourists clutching coffee and cider. The burned-sugar scent of kettle corn and roasting nuts drifts out of the candy shop.
Stacks of hay bales form makeshift benches all along the street, with carved jack-o’-lanterns already flickering from every windowsill. A swarm of black bats dangles from the branches of a massive grandfather oak, and ghostly wraiths swing from the lampposts. But all the decorations are dwarfed by the twenty-foot-tall specter of Mr. Bones at the end of the street.
His long, bony arms reach outward, his eyes huge, dark pits in his skeletal face. He wears a burgundy suit too short for his straggly legs.
I feel a deep chill looking at him. At his hungry, gaping mouth…
I take Ivy to one of the first booths to be set up, a cotton candy stand where they shape colored candy floss into gravity-defying sculptures skewered on paper cones. Ivy requests a pink and purple panda bear. She watches its creation and smiles when the lady hands it to her, but she only takes one bite before sinking back into sadness.
We visit the craft shop next to purchase several bags of turkey feathers, a short piece of rope, and a needle and thread. I ask Ivy if she wants to visit the toy shop next door, but she shakes her head.
“Well, come on, then. Let’s go back to the hotel. Who knows how long it will take me to sew on all these feathers!”
Ivy owns a lumpy brown sweater that will form an excellent base for her owl suit. The turkey feathers are long enough that they should look like wings hanging down from her arms.
Ivy follows me at first, but her feet seem to drag the closer we get to the Monarch. I stop and crouch down to look at her face. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
At first she won’t look at me, but when at last she lifts her head, I see her eyes are full of tears.
“Ivy, please,” I beg. “Tell me what’s wrong—is it Mrs. Cross? Is it your dad? Did something happen?”
She looks down at the pavement, shaking her head.
I don’t know what to do. Some part of me wonders if Ivy senses I’m leaving–if that’s why she’s upset. I’m sick with guilt and a horrible sense of powerlessness.
“Is it something about tonight?” I ask helplessly, but Ivy still shakes her head. “Okay,” I say, putting my hand gently on her shoulder, “let’s get back to the hotel.”
Feet still dragging, she follows.
Things go better while we’re making the costume. I put on a playlist of spooky Halloween music, not too loud, which Ivy seems to enjoy, and she takes pleasure in laying out the feathers for me in neat rows, ready to be attached.
Ivy’s costume takes several hours to assemble, but it’s well worth it when she tries it on in front of the mirror, pulling up the hood of her sweatshirt, which I also feathered, creating a little mask that hangs down over her eyes. She peers at herself in wonder then slowly turns around, arms spread, head turning at the last minute as if she can’t tear her gaze away from the magnificence of her wings.
“You like it?”
She throws her arms around my waist and hugs me.
Inside, I break a little.
My own costume is easy to make—it’s basically a bedsheet, artfully arranged with the little bit of rope tied around my waist.
But Ivy gets it at once when she sees it. She turns to the correct page in our Greek mythology book, grinning at me, pointing at the goddess Athena with her owl on her arm.
“That’s exactly right.” I laugh. “God, you’re clever.”
I hear Lorne’s voice in my head saying, “ Sometimes I think she’s just not that smart,” and I feel sicker than ever.
I don’t want to leave Ivy with someone who thinks that. Who doesn’t care if her mouth is throbbing and painful. Who doesn’t even like to eat dinner with her.
The thought of her all alone in that dark, jumbled castle is awful—or even worse, the thought of her tormented and needled by Mrs. Cross.
But I can’t take her with me. And I can’t stay with Lorne.
It’s an impossible situation with no real solution, just the hope that I can do something from a distance. A hope I don’t really believe in at all.
Which makes my last day with Ivy incredibly painful. Though I’m trying not to let her see it.
Secretly, some desperate part of me is still hoping I’ll learn something, figure something out, to truly help her.
Lorne comes into Ivy’s suite without knocking. Ivy and I both stiffen when we hear the key in the lock, and Ivy shudders when she hears Mrs. Cross’s high, staccato laugh. I frown because I did not think Mrs. Cross was coming along with us. I asked Lorne if it could just be the three of us. Maybe I would have been more likely to get what I wanted if I requested the opposite.
It’s my turn to shudder when the pair steps inside. Lorne is dressed as Mr. Bones in a tight burgundy suit, top hat, and skull-painted face. Mrs. Cross has made her own Mary Poppins costume. This is both sacrilegious and highly disturbing because she much more resembles the Child Catcher in disguise.
“Who are you supposed to be?” Lorne’s eyes crawl up and down my body. I don’t like this face painting he’s done—it makes it harder than ever to read his expression. “Aphrodite?” he guesses, smirking slightly. “Goddess of love?”
“Athena. Goddess of wisdom.”
Lorne snorts in a way that’s pretty insulting. “Okay.”
My hatred burns and burns. Maybe I was fucking stupid when I laid eyes on Lorne—but I’m fixing that mistake tonight.
I can’t wait to take his ring off my finger. Just a few hours left.
And most of all, I can’t wait to be with Atlas. Not sneaking around, not hiding—safe in his arms, openly, gladly. By midnight tonight.
That’s what I keep telling myself while forcing a smile for Lorne.